


You can't resist

by Saphirott



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bets, Denial of Feelings, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Masturbation, Possessive Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 16:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21479629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphirott/pseuds/Saphirott
Summary: A fight, a bet and will they be able to resist? One shot with a lot of humour and a hot atmosphere in every sense.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	You can't resist

**You can't resist**   
**By: Saphirott**

_"He's an idiot,"_ he thinks to himself. It was that or thinking that he was doing it to piss him off, and if that was the case, the plan was working out perfectly because his patience was running out and his degree of irritation was reaching dangerous levels. That "Used to love her" by Gun's and Roses was playing in the background didn't help much either.

_I used to love her, but I had to kill her_  
_I used to love her, but I had to kill her_  
_I had to put her, six feet under, and I can still hear her complain_  
_I used to love her, but I had to kill her_  
_I used to love her, but I had to kill her_  
_I knew I'd miss her, so I had to keep her_  
_She's buried right in my back yard_

Around them, people chatted while enjoying their dinners or having a few beers watching the game, totally oblivious to the storm that was about to begin. He is drumming impatiently on the surface of the table, he knows that he is frowning and breathing harder than he should. And yes, perhaps he is being a little dramatic, but today, precisely today, he should take it down a notch.

“Are you ever going to stop doing that?,” he asks irritably as the woman moves away from the table.

“Do what, Sammy?,” he replies, turning to him, (he was finally dignified), with an innocent smile.

“Nothing," he grumbles, reluctantly dropping himself on the back of his seat.

Dean looks at him curiously, he doesn't understand what he's referring to, but recapitulating a little in time and classifying his brother's bitchface at a level twelve out of ten gives him an idea; and although the most logical and, of course, the healthiest thing would have been to worry and try to correct the mistake; knowing it just seems more fun.

“Come on Samantha, don't tell me you're jealous?,” he asks, raising his best rogue smile, as he leans over the table staring at him, the green of his eyes distilling fun.

“I have told you a thousand times not to call me Samantha," he protests, leaning as Dean did on the table and their faces almost stuck. Storm clouds swirl swiftly in Sam's eyes as he clenches his fists in rage.

They hold their posture for a few seconds until Dean can't take it anymore and burst into a loud laughter, leaning back and causing some of those present to turn around, looking at them with curiosity.

“You're an idiot," murmurs Sam, dropping himself again.

“Come on Sam..." he says while pretending to wipe some tears, "I wasn't doing anything.” Unhappy, Sam snort. “Hey, come on, you're not going to ruin the night over some nonsense, are you? We've come to celebrate. It's your birthday! My little brother becomes a man," he jokes, pretending a pout of emotion, "I'm so proud....”

“Dean, I'm thirty-six, I've been a man for a long time," he protests, but he couldn't hide the appearance of a smile.

“Nah, little brother, for me you will always be small," he says.

“You didn't say that the other night," Sam hires, looking at him with a certain look of superiority. Dean squints his eyes and looks at him intensely.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy..., you shouldn't play with fire, you know you can get burned.”

“So what?” He replied provocative, feeling as the anger was diluted in post of the increasing level of excitement that was acquiring the conversation.

With his eyes still ajar, Dean smiles lewdly, just a second before letting his tongue glimpse, wetting his lips; those fleshy lips that Sam was watching starvingly and that gave him goose bumps when Dean scratched the bottom with his teeth.

“Then perhaps I should punish you for misbehaving and disobeying," he says in a low, slow voice.

“I'd like to see you try," replied Sam, provocateur. Both their eyes glow funny and excited. It's a game that time and circumstances rarely let them practice, but that both of them enjoy when they can.

“Here you have boys...,” interrupts a female voice that abruptly deposits a plate of salad in front of Sam, who jumps back in surprise and then turns around with a provocative smile towards Dean. “Hamburger with all and double potatoes on the house,” said, leaning over to leave the plate for longer than necessary.

Sam's face is transformed again and Dean shouldn't be so reckless, but it is greater than his own and of course, Sammy makes it so, so easy, he can't help it. Taking a quick look at his brother and making sure he doesn't take his eye off him, he turns his face towards the girl, all seduction in his smile.

“Thank you very much, sweetheart," he replies, basking in the excited glow in the blue eyes of the waitress, who doesn't take long to write something down quickly in her notebook, under the watchful gaze of both of them. When she finishes, she tears off the paper and folds it, taking the hand of the oldest and depositing it in his palm.

“I go out at twelve o'clock," she informs him without taking her eyes off those green eyes that have her dazzled and anxious. Nor does she take her hand away, prolonging the contact with that calloused palm she already imagines caressing her skin.

She's so focused on her flirtation that she can't suppress a drowned moan when she feels another hand, even bigger, holding her wrist tight enough to hurt her. She turns in surprise to see the long-haired giant with a face like a rainy day, and before she can say anything, he takes the paper from the palm of her recent conquest and tears it to pieces.

“But...,” she begins to protest.

“I think this goes beyond your work as a waitress," he says threateningly, "you'd better leave before I have to make a complaint.”

The waitress looks at Dean surprised, waiting for him to defend her, but he doesn't say anything and just smiles funny, looking at his table partner.

“I said get out!,” barks Sam. The girl tries to recover and looks offended at Dean who just shrug his shoulders.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. Don't mind him, he's having a bad day.”

The girl shakes her blonde hair with dignity and leaves, not without looking at both of them with a hateful look.

“Well, such a mess you've made, Sammy. Let's see who brings us the beers now," he says as if nothing had happened. Sam shakes his head and stands up.

“My hunger is gone, I don't want anything anymore, thank you.” He grabs his jacket with rage and is ready to walk towards the door.

“Sam," Dean stops him, taking him by the sleeve of the jacket. “Come on, Sam, don't be like that, I was joking.”

“I'm laughing at your jokes," he said in an annoying tone, shaking his arm and freeing himself from his grip, and then walking on.

“Sam! Come on, Sam...,” But Sam has already reached the door and opens it without looking back. “Sam! Shit Sammy...”

Cursing himself, he takes out his wallet to leave a few dollars on the table, grabs his jacket and runs after his brother.

When he comes out, Sam is leaning on the side of the Impala, with the face of very few friends. For a moment he thinks about scolding him, they are too old for tantrums like that, but deep down he knows that he has exceeded and that today was his birthday and that he had planned that dinner to celebrate it and now, he had ruined it by not knowing when it was enough.

So, take a deep breath, take the keys out of the car and decide that it would be better to be quiet, at least on the trip back to the bunker, and let's see if that space of time is enough for his brother to calm down and stop murdering him with his eyes; because Sam doesn't speak, but his glances are very descriptive and nothing Dean is seeing in it is good, not for him, not for his balls. And he's very fond of his balls, thank you.

Sam doesn't seem to have any intention of talking either, so he turns on the radio and lets the music fill the space until they reach their destination. Once there, Sam goes straight to the kitchen, follows him, and finds him pulling a carton of milk from the fridge.

“Eh...” he says in a conciliatory tone, placing his hand on his forearm. “Come on, Sammy, I told you I'm sorry. You're right, I went too far.”

“Stop it Dean. Seriously, I don't want to argue,” he answers in a serious tone.

“Come on, don't you think you're making a mountain out of a grain of sand?,” he asks nervously.

“Do you think so?,” he responds by leaving everything on the counter and turning around to face him.

His face is again the same as in the bar, frowning, lips tightened and head slightly tilted, again a bitcface at its best; ah, add arms crossed over his chest. And Dean realizes that the time of the trip has not been enough to calm him down and he, too, begins to get angry with that offended attitude and for his opinion, out of order, but it's his brother, it's his day and he's going to swallow his pride and make every effort to fix it; for which, only one thing comes to mind.

With his best repentant smile, he shortens the distance and lets his hands rest on both sides of Sam's waist, looks at him for a second and when he makes sure there is no negative reaction, caresses with his thumbs, making small circles over the marked bones of his hip.

Sam rolls his eyes with annoyance, but that won't stop him from his plan. He gets a little closer, reducing the space between them to the minimum expression, surrounds the narrow waist and lets his hands travel across the strong back. Sam's arms are still crossed, acting as a wall between them, but he manages to place a short kiss on his shoulder, and then bury his nose on the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing in hard.

“I'm sorry. You are right, I am an idiot,” he recites meekly on his shoulder, feeling as if with those words, all the rigidity in Sam's body had begun to accumulate when he started the embrace, dissipated. Sam sighed strongly and finally separated his arms, letting him occupy that space, while now it was his hands resting on the Dean's hips.

“Yes, you are," he said, not yet abandoning his indolent tone.

Dean separated just enough to be able to face him. His face, falsely offended and astonished, gave way to a resplendent smile.

“Does that mean you forgive me?,” he asks in a low tone, his lips incredibly close to those of the youngest.

“I guess, I've got that or kill you.”

Dean emits a small laughter full of sufficiency, before pushing himself towards his brother's lips, rubbing them gently with his, then returning with a little more intensity, as he feels Sam's hands squeeze his hips tighter. Sam sighs in the kiss and grunts pleased with the answer, advancing with his tongue, waiting for a permit that does not take long to arrive.

Suddenly it's very hot and it feels like there's not enough air. The intensity rises and both lose in the whirlpool of kisses and caresses. Sam has practically forgotten why he was angry, something he doesn't find so strange with Dean's mastery of his mouth. Almost forgotten, because that mastery works with kisses, but it is totally null when it comes to keeping him quiet.

“You see Sammy..., you worry about nothing,” he says in the brief moment when his lips separate. “I'm with you. I was just playing, they're just entertainment, a way not to rust. I'm Dean Winchester, I have a reputation to uphold.”

Sam knows that Dean was joking, that it was his typical bluff that was talking. His joking tone and the sarcastic gleam of his gaze tell it to him. But, although he tries, he can't prevent the phrase from reaching him like a direct right in the stomach, and that the image of the blonde flirting with him, reaches him with astonishing clarity, and to that blonde is added the brunette of two months ago and those twins who pretended to be actresses and who had a lot of talent to show.

He's sure Dean hasn't had anything to do with them, but it still bothers him. And yes, again it is being a little too dramatic, but in for a penny, in for a pound. And, come on, he's fed up. So he straightens up, rests his hands on Dean's chest. and pushes him aside.

“I'm tired,” announces in a tone devoid of emotion. “I go to sleep.”

Dean looks at him with his eyes wide open and his jaw about to touch the ground. “What happens now?,” he asks without understanding anything.

“Nothing. I'm just tired.”

“You didn't look tired,” Dean claims, now also angry and with a problem that he doesn't like handling alone at all.

“You haven't noticed why you're "rusty",” he replied, using his fingers to emphasize the quotation marks. “Maybe you should go back to the waitress, she looked like she was willing to grease anything.”

Their anger was patent, neither of them knew how it got out of hand, but what was equally clear was that neither of them was going to back down.

“To hell with it, Sam!” Dean shouted, pointing his finger at him. “I've been apologizing all night and dragging myself for "having hurt" your feelings of princess.” And he also used his fingers to emphasize, “

Sam looked at him angry at the nickname.

“But you know what?” He continued, "I'm fed up! Do you want to be offended? Well, that's great... Don't you want to go on with what we were doing? Great!” Dean had taken a run and he wasn't going to stop. “Remember that it was you who decided this, then don't come looking for me because I'm not going to be there.”

“I wasn't thinking of doing it,” Sam replies with a resentful tone.

“HA-HA!” shouts Dean with sufficiency. “Before two days you will be asking in front of my door.” The green of his eyes shines defiantly.

“Most probably it's in the other way around.” Sam has a frown and his lips are pursed with rage.

“We'll see,” Dean sentence.

“Of course we will.”

And with that phrase, a bet is set, that neither of their knows where or how it's going to end.

Both leave the kitchen smoking and spouting off on their heads about the stubbornness of the other. The doors of the two rooms are closed at the same time with loud slamming doors.

"Fucking spoiled child," Dean renegades as he opens the shower tap. He undresses himself with sudden and fast movements and goes under the water, still reneging. He is so angry that he doesn't even think about taking care of his not-so-small problem, the result of the rapid but intense friction in the kitchen. Without thinking about it, he opens the cold water tap and lets it take care of it. The water lowers the issue, but for nothing manages to cool Dean’s mood, who can only think of how to make bite the dust to that squirt who has dared to challenge him.

In the other room, Sam is already in bed, but he doesn't sleep either. He knows it's going to be difficult, he has a hard time resisting Dean, but he also has his own weapons and is in no way willing to lose.

When he gets up, Dean is surprised that Sam is gone. The door to his room is open and the interior is perfectly tidy. He grunts with annoyance and walks to the kitchen, hoping to see him there, but he doesn't. He looks at the clock and twists the gesture, it's early enough, even for him. A movement of the security cameras attracts his attention and then he sees it.

"Fucking bastard. He's out running..."

Dean snorts and points something mentally at his head. With all the tranquility of the world, he prepares his breakfast and sits at the table, glancing with interest at a car magazine he bought a few days ago. Sam doesn't take long to appear. His breathing is a little agitated by the effort and he wears that silly smile with which he always wants to convince him how good and healthy it is to run. Absurd, if nobody is after you, why?

“Good morning,” greetings, all energy and loaded with "innocence".

“Uhumm,” that's his only answer.

He doesn't intend to show any interest, he doesn't raise his eyes from the magazine and of course, that's why, -he doesn't see-, the narrow t-shirt that is sure that five years ago was already small and that now, in addition, is attached to his body by sweat, leaving very little room for imagination. He also doesn't "see," those shorts, _"Really? When before have he worn shorts?”_ that mark an ass that he's having a hard time ignoring but that, of course, he's going to succeed.

Sam seems undecided in the absence of a response from Dean, who continues to pretend to be very focused on the fold-out dossier with comparisons of what were considered the three best van models of that year. But he knows his brother and he knows that, in spite of everything, he is not losing detail. With the same indifference that he wears, he takes off his shirt and uses it to partly dry his sweat. Dean's eyes shrink for a moment, but he quickly returns to his original position.

The corner of Sam's mouth is raised in a small smile. He is as good an observer as Dean and has not been alien to the movement, although like Dean, he pretends. He turns, with his back to him, and walks to the door where a pull-up bar is placed. With a small impulse he clings to it and begins to raise and lower his body with the strength of his arms.

Dean feels his throat dry and thanks for not having finished the coffee yet. He takes a sip, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on the bitter, intense taste of the mixture and not think about the worked muscles of Sam's back, contracting and expanding; neither in his narrow waist, nor in his tight butt as he crosses his legs at his ankles to stay firmer in the exercise.

Counting to ten is falling short and should go for at least two thousand seven hundred, but he is standing like a champion and only for this should give him a medal. No one in his right mind would stand still before such a vision. For God's sake! In the end, taking the magazine is going to be more useful than he thought, because he is going to need it to get up from there without giving satisfaction to his little brother, whom he will take care of later.

"Do you want war, Sammy? Well, you're going to have it..."

He waits a prudential time, but Sam doesn't seem to get tired, all this healthy stuff about his brother is not normal at all. In the face of Sam's unbridled waste of energy, there is only one dignified way out, boredom. With a resounding yawn, he gets up, strategically using the magazine for his improvised function, he begins to walk, shuffling his feet, towards the door where Sam exercises.

Passing literally under his arms, he stands on the other side of the door and turns to look at it from top to bottom. The proud glint in the brilliant kaleidoscope of Sam's irises does not escape him; therefore, he arms his mask of disdain and charges his tone with the condescension of a mother.

“You shouldn't have taken your shirt off. You're in the current and the sweat is going to get cold. Then don't come to me when you get sick,” he finished the sentence halfway down the hall, turning his back on Sam and laughing inside because, although he couldn't see it, he could perfectly imagine his expression.

Sam is still doing his exercises for a while. He doesn't want it to make any sense anymore, but he doesn't want it to be so obvious that his only intention was to provoke Dean. He picks up his shirt, it's too late to put it on and although he hates to admit it, his brother was right and now, the cold runs through his interior, _"I'm sure I'll get sick"._ With that thought he goes to his room, ready to take a hot shower that tones his body.

Thoughtful and somewhat disappointed, he opens the door of his bathroom, just to find Dean's buttocks half covered with the small towel with which he is drying.

“Dean!,” he exclaims in surprise.

“Christ, Sam! Didn't anyone tell you to knock on doors before entering?,” Dean replies, apparently with the same surprise, after turning to face a very stunned Sam, who doesn't understand why Dean is holding the towel against his chest as if it were a shield instead of covering what he should be covering.

“Oh, sorry... What the hell Dean! This is supposed to be my bathroom and my room; and as far as I can remember, you have the same thing across the hall, so what are you doing here?,” he asked angrily.

“What do you think?,” responds obviously. “I was taking a shower, mine is clogged. Didn't I tell you?”

“No, you didn't,” he answers, clenching his teeth, while he can't stop his eyes mapping Dean's body, his skin blushing from the effect of the temperature of the shower, the drops of water sliding through it, delineating every curve of his brother's definite body, the freckles..., those freckles that he likes to run through with his fingers or with his tongue, in those moments before or after sex and that now...

He can't suppress a drowned gasp, and although it quickly recovers, the fun, triumphal glow of those green eyes doesn't escape him.

“I'd forget...” And there it is, his best cynical smile, the one that narrows his eyes until he marks those little wrinkles on the sides . “As you were so busy with the exercise, I thought it would give me time before you came, obviously not. But easy, tiger, I'm leaving now,” he concluded, adjusting, thank God, the towel to his waist and passing by his side without even touching him.

“At least you haven't used up all the hot water?,” he asked, still stunned, watching him go.

“Of course!,” he answers with his back and without looking at him, accompanying the affirmation with a gesture of the raised hand and raising a Machiavellian smile that Sam cannot observe. _"I don't think it's hot water what you need, little brother."_

Five minutes later, Dean can hear the improper from his room.

If you were to ask either of them, they would both admit that the day had been devilishly long and exhausting, and if they talked to each other, they would surely laugh at the absurd vortex in which they have entered, which has them on the edge of mental and physical collapse. But obviously neither of them is willing to admit that, so the challenge continues, even though they seem to have come to a little rest.

Sam yawns loudly, it's late, his eyes sting because he's been reading for a couple of hours, more or less the same as Dean went to his room. He smiles as he recalls Dean's disgusted gesture after his last triumphant move; he stayed in the room only to enjoy the moment of having made him flee. Leaving the book on the table, he wakes up ready to go to sleep.

The groans and gasps that escape under the door make him suddenly stop halfway. Unbelieving, he comes a little closer, sharpening his ear. The sound is unmistakable, but there are several voices involved in the matter. _"He'll be... He's watching porn!"_ After the surprise, he smiles satisfied, it seems that Dean is not handling the tension so well, and he cannot stop pointing it at him. With a clenched fist, he knocks on the door curtness.

“Come on Dean! What's the matter? You can't hold on and you need to resort to porn?,” he mocks.

“What are you talking about, Sammy? Didn't put anything interesting on TV. Go to sleep and don't bother or..., wait! What were you doing behind the door? Were you going to knock and ask me to come back? Sammy, Sammy, Sammy... not one day?.” And now it's Dean who mocks.

“You wish,” he answers annoyed.

“You're confused, little brother, you're the one spying behind the door. Come on, I know you're willing to come in and join me.”

“Screw you, asshole!”

“It won't be you, bitch!”

Dean laughs to himself and still allows himself to be reaffirmed in having the final say in that discussion.

“I'm going to win this bet, Samuel! Keep that in mind.”

Sam goes to bed sulking. Dean is like oil, he always has to stay on top and that puts him in a pretty bad mood. That, and that he's been going to bed two night horny. He curls up and covers all the way to his ears, trying to blank his mind and just sleep.

But his mind's a bitch and doesn't want to relax. He simply travels from the image of his brother this morning as he comes out of the shower, to which he imagines him watching porn from his bed; and then, from the generous view of his ass, sheathing in extremely worn jeans that looked so soft that he dug his nails into his palms to avoid touching, while Dean leaned under the hood of the Impala, once again enjoying porn. And of his voice, mocking and deep, suggesting that he come into the room to... watch porn, together?

_ **Porn! Porn! Porn!** _

"Oh God, Dean!”

There's no way. And suddenly it's too hot. With a tired snort, he lies face up, setting aside his bedding with a gesture. The scene is too vivid in his head, because he knows Dean too well. His brother is pure sex, everithing in him shout it, not just his physique, but his voice, his movements and his gaze. He has been too many times present when lust exuded through the pores of his freckled skin; too many to be indifferent, not to know that his brother is touching himself; not to recognize how much he would like to be with him.

The tug in his lower belly is known to him, but even so, he cannot avoid a surprised groan. Close his eyes and take a deep breath, the best thing will be to let himself go and see if, in that way, he can get some rest. His body tightens as he tentatively slides his fingers across his chest. He feels that familiar shiver that precedes pleasure and cuts off his breath.

His other hand travels further south, sneaking under the remains of the bedding, pushing them all away to give space to his kilometre-long legs that are now open. He lifts his head slightly above the pillow and sees what he has been feeling for some time, his swollen cock struggling against the fabric of the slip.

"What are you doing to me, Dean," he whispers to himself as he slides his palm over the cloth and can't prevent his hips from jumping for greater contact.

He falls back into the pillow and a look is drawn on his head, a look filled with the green of a jungle, as humid and warm as the jungle itself; lush and dark, predicting emotions and risks to those he wishes to succumb to. A ladino smile accompanies it; and he cannot avoid smiling back, when that perfect set leans over him, spilling a warm breath on his throat and whispering in a brazen manner.

_"Is this what you want, Sammy?"_

_"Yes..."_

The affirmation has been a faltering plea, drowned by the pressure of his hand, already under the cloth, surrounding his steely cock, which beats proudly under his palm. He caresses himself slowly but firmly, yielding his own much more energetic tastes to what he knows he would get from Dean if he were there. His brother knew how to hold him, maintaining and extending the pleasure to unsuspected limits.

He wishes so much it was him... "Dean..." He can almost recreate the soft touch of those glorious lips on his own, soft but demanding, setting the rhythm that, at the same time, invites to transgress, looking for a fierce battle, in which finally, both win.

_"That's Sammy..., let me take care of you..."_

The voice in his head becomes more real, so much so that it makes him tremble. He scratches with his fingers the turgid buttons that stand out erect on his chest, pinching them at the same time that he continues caressing himself with that tortuous slowness that electrifies his belly and his back. "Dean...", he begs, eyes squeezed to ignore loneliness and get lost in pleasure.

He is so familiar that it is not difficult for him to imagine the weight of the other body on his, the calloused hand that replaces him in the task and that mouth that traces wet paths around his neck. The skin feels bristly following the memory of those kisses that go down his chest, following a path that, for his taste, takes too long to travel.

His body agitates and rises as he can no longer bear the desire to entangle his fingers in his short hair and guide him to finally find his destiny. He feels the rotten smile on the skin of his belly and hisses surprised under the sudden bite that scratches his sensitive and transpired dermis, that crisps up to his toes.

He feels that hand strangling his erection, in a torturously pleasant way, while those aquamarines run through his body in a totally lascivious way. Their glances intersect with pupils obscured by desire. A question arises that is not necessary because it is not ignorant of the yearning that the eyes of others distil, but it is part of the game.

_"What do you want, Sammy?"_

_"You know..."_

_"Ask me."_

_"I want... I want your mouth."_

_"Ask me!"_

_"Please..."_

He wants it, he wants it more than anything, and his mind is an excellent companion on this journey he have decided to start. He can see the satisfied smile, the raised commissure charged with arrogance, the hungry glow that announces promises of pleasure. Dean bows down, tongue running its entire length in a single movement. His body rises like a spring, while a strangled groan escapes his lips.

"Oh, God... Yes!"

He feels that he is going to go mad, lost in the humidity of those lips that are stealing his breath. Dean slips his tongue with mastery, torturing his body without any remorse.

In the loneliness of his bed, Sam wants more, he needs more. He moistens his fingers with saliva and takes another step in his self-pleasure session.

"Dean..." begs again.

**********

He keeps smiling until he hears the slamming of the door and even after that, it lasts a while longer. It's always gratifying to annoy Sam, it's not bad intent, it's just an irrefutable rule in the code of all siblings. But the satisfaction of victory is ephemeral, however. With boredom, he looks around him, at the room empty again and that is enough to give him back the tension he has not been able to get rid of all day.

The images follow one another on the screen to which he had not paid attention for a long time, put with only one motive. The suggestive sounds capture his attention and show him two rough cowboys trying to satisfy the needs of a voluptuous and very surrendered brunette, somewhat exceeded, for his taste, at the time of showing her complacency with the attention. Of course we're talking about a porn movie, what else can you expect?

He discovers himself annoyed with the images. That's not what he wants to see, and it's not a question of gender, he doesn't want to see two men with one woman, just as he doesn't want to see two men together, not even two women together. _"God, what are we going to get to,"_ he wonders. He, who can recite from memory and in alphabetical order all the porn stars of the last fifteen years. But no, right now, nothing of that serves him, now the only thing he wants is Sam and unfortunately, he can not have it. Rather dead than lose that challenge.

Sam, who has been torturing him since the morning, boasting about that perfect body he knows so well. It was agony to resist running his sweaty back with his tongue, to hold firmly those narrow hips and let him feel in his buttocks everything that provoked him. Those buttocks that the damned kid had put on a tray in the middle of the afternoon, when he found him on his knees in his bathroom, "fixing" the drain clogged; with his innocent look and that smile crowded with dimples in all its splendor.

Yes, Sam was anything but innocent. Of course it wasn't when he collapsed on the sofa, according to him to read, all legs open, only with the slip and a T-shirt and leaving him an extraordinary view of his erection. Yes, all subtle the little bastard. He has to admit that it was much more than he could bear and he had nothing left but to beat in a shameful retreat.

Who can blame him? Nothing good went through his mind in those moments, when he only wanted to kneel between those long legs and enjoy what was undoubtedly his. He squeezed his erection with an unhappy growl. It was not the same, but it would have to be worth it. He closed his eyes and searched his memory for that image that always made him mad.

That Sam given to the caresses of his mouth, loved to have him like that, to feel his pleasure growing by waves on his tongue, begging for more, always begging for more. He liked to look at him, to observe his eyes twisted, glassy and unfocused by pleasure. His lips swollen and red, half-opened in a groan that made his skin bristle. Those rednees cheeks and the hair stirred and wet by sweat.

The same sweat he felt exuding from every pore of his body as he stroked himself rudely, panting Sam's name, longing with all his soul to be inside him. Inside that body that conformed to his like a perfect last.

_"Dean..., Dean, please..."_

The voice is formed in his mind, urgent and needy. He adores the body under his hands. He caresses his thighs offering him a loving smile just before leaning over him looking for his lips. Joining his mouth to Sam's was always overwhelming to him, despite the time it had been since they had crossed the line. Sam was as demanding as he was devoted to that gesture, and he felt that Sam could rob him of his life, and he would in no way stop him.

He kisses him long and hard, as he rocks his body with a slow, cadenced rhythm, letting the friction between the two keep them on the crest before definitely dropping off.

_"Dean..."_

_"Shhh... I got you."_

He clenches his fist around his erection, just as he knows Sam's body would. He feels the tension in his belly, the racing beat of his heart and knows it is about to end.

Grunting with pleasure, he delves into that narrow and warm interior, without taking his eyes away from those eyes that he loves, those eyes that scream at him without words feelings that are mutual, desires and longings that he hopes to always be able to please.

***

Sam is no longer able to keep up and his caresses look uncontrollable. He increases the rhythm with which his fingers penetrate him, moaning with pleasure, grazing the climax, about to explode.

_"Come on Sammy..., come on..., let me see you, just let go"_

"Dean!"

Dean moans, raising his hips as his fist tightens his strokes, increasing the rhythm, filling the room with moist sounds.

Sam clings to his back, feels his fingers twitching under the musculature of his shoulders, while he firmly holds his hips, setting a frantic pace. He looks for his mouth and kisses him with the eagerness of the one who knows that the end is approaching, wet, dirty and disorderly, but so hot that he drags them to the ecstasy that was already impossible to stop.

Sam grunts before feeling himself spilled on the sheets, his hands still shaking and his body pearled with sweat.

Dean can't help but shout his brother's name in his mind, jaws and lips clenched to avoid doing it loud, as his seed spreads over his chest.

Both are dropped exhausted on the mattress; each in the lonliness of his room.

******

Three days they had been immersed in that madness, the tension accumulating like a gas that left them without air when they were together in a room, a flammable and dangerous gas, about to explode. Dean sighs with his eyes closed as he presses the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He needs to get this over with, if they even had a case..., shooting anything with sharp teeth would have helped. But fortune doesn't seem to be on their side and tranquility that week seems to be evident in everything related to their work.

He feels Sam's eyes, watching him with hostility from his position at the far end of the table, drumming with his fingers on the lacquered surface, with that expression he used to intimidate reluctant witnesses and that although it didn't affect him, he had to admit that he was quite imposing.

“What?” he asks annoyed.

“Nothing,” answers Sam mumbling.

“Look Sammy, this...,” the phrase is interrupted by Sam, with a tone charged with self-sufficiency.

“Do you surrender?,” and can't hide the mocking tone, which makes Dean straighten his back and look at him with rage.

“This has only just begun,” he answers in a sharp tone, to get up and leave without saying goodbye. _"But I'm going to finish it, today, little brother..."_, he says to himself, when the idea takes shape in his head.

A couple of hours later, Sam thinks he hears Dean talking in the kitchen; relieved at the possibility of going out with a new case, he goes there, wishing to know what has happened and occupy his head in something other than the matter at hand. Dean whispers and that surprises him, a strange alarm makes him slow down.

“... at twelve o'clock then...,” he manages to hear, “... yes, seriously, I'll be there..., of course..., goodbye.” Dean hangs up and turns around with a glowing smile, which vanishes from his face when he sees him.

“Something happened?,” he asks suspiciously.

“Ehmm... no. No, nothing. Just, wrong number.”

“Wrong number...,” he repeats with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, wrong,” respond to the defensive, “these things happen, you know?,” and with an angry gesture, he passes by without doing anything to prevent his shoulders from colliding in a brief blow, but not because of that, less painful.

Sam knows perfectly well that his brother lies to him and that keeps him confused and angry, figuring thousand theories and none of them can end well. He doesn't see Dean in the rest of the day and this fact, far from relieving him, only adds more wood to a fire that already burns with extreme virulence.

At eleven o'clock he hears the sound of the door of his room opening, and although he wants to, he cannot avoid getting up and going out to face him. Dean walks down the hallway like a fashion catwalk. Wrapped in grey jeans that fit perfectly, a black shirt that hides nothing and a red shirt on rolled up to the elbows.

An aura of provocation distills from each of his movements, from his wet hair and perfectly placed by the gel, from his feline look loaded with security, and from that rogue smile that yields hearts in his wake. Dean is ready to go in for the kill and Sam knows it.

“Going somewhere?,” he asks, without hiding his anger.

“Yes, let's have a drink. I've been stuck here too long. I need to breathe,” pure cynicism in his voice

“Alone?,” and the tone is lower now. Dean puffs tired as he adjusts his leather jacket.

“Yes, busybody, all by myself. But who knows, the night is young and I feel like I'm in luck.” The sufficiency-laden smile contrasts with tight lips in a fine line from Sam.

“Do you think I'm stupid?” Now it's Dean who's looking at him in question. “I heard you before, I know you've met someone,” spit with rage.

“And if you heard me, why do you ask?,” he responds defiantly, getting closer to him and hitting him accusatorily with his forefinger on his chest. Sam swings his hand away from him, feeling the fire growing inside him.

“With whom?,” he grunts.

“None of your business.”

“Tell me with whom,” he repeats slowly, containing the desire to start screaming.

“I said..., none-of-your-businees,” emphasize slowly, knowing that the emphasis of each word is like a punch in Sam's now fragile barrier of self-control.

As he supposed and expected, it explodes even earlier than planned, and he can't help but feel the air escaping when his back unceremoniously hits one of the walls of the room. Sam's fists clench over the collar of his shirt and his forearms hold him to the wall. The storm is unleashed inside his eyes and he feels the grinding of his teeth, inside that clenched jaw.

“What the hell is wrong with you?,” shouts, “I can't go out? What is this, neither with you nor without you? Things don't go that way, little brother.”

“Shut the fuck up!,” Sam growls.

“I'm not going to shut up. You chose this, good, all right, I'm tired of the game. I need a drink and I need to get out, so let me go before I have to give you a good reprimand,” demands with annoyance.

“Who?,” asks again Sam, totally oblivious to his threat, blinded by that fire that grips his bowels.

Dean tries to push him, but he simply took advantage of his body to keep him against the wall. Dean rolls his eyes pretending to be tired.

“The waitress,” said without hesitation. “Amy, Emma or something like that, I don't remember well.” A shadow of confusion crosses Sam's face.

“Waitress? What waitress?”

“Fuck, little brother, it made you smarter. What's it going to be? The one from the other day, you know, the blonde with the extra fries,” he answers with a smile of sufficiency.

“You're lying,” he says, “you don't have her phone, I broke it myself.” Dean shrugged with a guilty gesture.

“You know me Sam, I don't like to give up my conquests, those telephones are my little trophies, I took the pieces when I went out, I only thought of adding it to my diary and nothing else, but seen as it is, I can get another use out of it.” There's a flash of mockery in the green orbs.

That mockery, that challenge, that smile loaded with superiority...; Sam feels the blood boiling in his veins, the rage, the anger and the frustration of all those days. He feels Dean imprisoned beneath his body, both tense and with his breath shaken, the smell of his colony and beneath it, his own smell, that which drives him crazy.

“You're not going,” he says with clenched teeth. Dean looks at him defiantly.

“Why is that?,” he asks brazenly.

The answer isn't as verbal as you might expect. A growl escapes from his throat when he feels Sam's lips take his mouth with a breathtaking impetus. The kiss is demanding, rude, savage and tries to follow it as far as he can, but Sam is as overwhelming as a freight train and is about to derail.

They separate, more by the vital need to breathe than by anything else. Sam looks at him with dark, determined eyes.

“You're not going," he repeats. Dean flickers his own lips and then tilts his head back and forth, recomposing his serious face and cynical smile.

“Nice try, little brother, but insufficient, I think. Besides, I'm a gentleman,” he says with a feigned pout, “I'm not going to stand up a lady.”

Sam lunges at him again, biting his lips, penetrating his mouth without any permission. He tries to push it away, but Sam takes his wrists and holds them firmly over his head.

“Call her and tell her you're not going,” demand.

“No,” answers defiantly.

Sam is about to go mad, he wants to kill him, to beat him until he wipes that mocking smile from his face, he wants to smash him against the wall and..., of...; who does he want to deceive? What he wants is what he has in front of him; Dean, with his breath shaken, his lips swollen from kissing them so much and his longing body. He wants to have it under his body, make him beg for pleasure and take him to ecstasy a thousand times.

He kisses him again, leaves his lips to get lost in his neck, sinking his nose into it, licking the exact point where the pulse beats, sucking, marking what is his.

“Call her,” demand again. Dean looks at him with his eyes twisted. In spite of everything, he can distinguish his dilated pupils and feel against his, the response of Dean's body. “Call her,” he repeats, rocking his hips against Dean's, dizzy from the delicious friction. Dean denies with his head and he nods, urged by the need to end that discussion and be able to carry out each of his desires.

“Well,” he says with tight lips and arrogant aptitude. “I will call her.”

With only one of his hands, he holds Dean's wrists and with the other, he searches through his trouser pockets until he finds Dean's phone. He searches the outgoing calls and sees nothing, the last one was a week ago; he searches the incoming calls and so on; he searches the adress and there is neither Emma, nor Amy, nor really the name of any unknown girl. He looks at his brother with a frown and a questioning expression, and finds only a Dean with a glowing smile and bright eyes.

“You'll be a bastard,” he says defeated and as the only answer, he hears a loud and deep laughter from Dean. “You have cheated me...”

“Little brother...,” he says in a triumphal tone, “this should teach you that never, but never, never, should you challenge your older brother. The elders always win.”

Sam looks at him and automatically his defeated face is erased with a smile, because yes, he has lost, but here he has Dean, held under his hands and he is going to make him pay very dearly.

“We'll see who wins when I have you under me, begging,” he says provocateur on Dean’s lips, taking them again in an equally intense but slower kiss. Dean's eyes gleam and he smiles satisfied inside the kiss.

“Sammy...,” he answers in a hoarse voice when they separate, “but, be that as it may..., I win.”

The end


End file.
